


treading the riptide

by jolie_unfiltrd



Series: jon x sansa drabbles 2021 [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad Decisions, Brooding, Drama & Romance, F/M, For Aesthetics Reasons, Jon Plays Hockey, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, New Years Eve party, Sansa/Harry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28861797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolie_unfiltrd/pseuds/jolie_unfiltrd
Summary: It's a new year, time for a new chapter - but Jon is here, at the annual Stark New Years party, desperately avoiding the one woman who bewitches him and infuriates him and is there on HarryfuckingHardyng's arm, glimmering and laughing and the brightest thing he's ever seen.It's a new year, or it almost is, and Sansa needs an escape, she needs to leave, she needs to be anywhere but here at the party, anywhere but next to Harry for another minute, but instead of pulling Robb out to talk to her, to give her his car keys,something, it's Jon Snow, instead.---jonsa new year drabbles, day 5:new beginningstitle from bad intentions by niykee heaton
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: jon x sansa drabbles 2021 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116518
Comments: 60
Kudos: 99
Collections: Jonsa New Year Drabbles





	1. don't want to go home (don't want to be alone)

Jon sighs as he sets down the champagne glass in the empty kitchen, reveling in the moment of peace that he has stolen, away from the Stark’s infamously raucous New Years party. It is always all glitter and dark amber drinks sloshing in chilled glasses and conversations shouted above blasting music in a crowded room.

He realizes as he loosens his tie that he’s seen every Stark in that densely packed room except one, the one he’d wanted to see the most, the one he couldn’t bear to see.

He'd last seen her standing in the entryway, clad in a shimmering gold gown, hair draped becomingly over one shoulder, dark lips laughing at some joke that Harry _fucking_ Hardyng told as she hung from his arm. Jon hadn’t been able to help it - his lip had curled up into a sneer. He hated that prick and had ever since they started dating, ever since Sansa became a trophy on his arm, a prize to be showcased around, ever since Sansa had shown up to their hockey match with _his_ fucking jersey on her slim shoulders.

She’d seen his sneer, had rolled her bright blue eyes at his behavior, and he’d turned to go play darts or something equally dangerous with an already blitzed Robb.

Jon runs his hands through his hair. He should go back. He tells himself that he should go back, drink more champagne, lose himself in the noise and the dancing and find somebody to kiss at midnight and try to forget -

The doors to the back patio cracks open, and a slim wrist decked out in gold bangles grabs his hand, yanking him out to the darkness and his eyes widen in surprise as he sees Sansa Stark, shivering in her strapless gown, tendrils of red curls caught in her cleavage, blue eyes narrowed in some mixture of annoyance and despair.

“You’re – I thought you were Robb.”

Jon says nothing. Sansa’s eyes dart to the open window from the living room next door, strains of music and shouting echoing into the shadows between them, even as crosses her arms beneath her breasts and issues her next demand in the form of a question.

“Can you get me out of here?”

Jon raises an imperious brow and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Why should I?”

Sansa licks her lips and narrows her eyes, and he can see, as she steps into the light, that she has been crying, that she is furious, nearly incandescent with rage. “I need to leave,” she says through her teeth.

Even incensed, she is so beautiful it’s unfair. Jon feels himself plummeting off the cliff of his carefully molded restraint as he gives in.

“Fine,” he clips out, grateful that the champagne had been his only drink of the evening. “Do you need a jacket?”

Sansa gives him a withering look. “I can just use yours.”

His jaw tightens to prevent the groan from spilling out at the image that immediately dominates his mind – of Sansa Stark in his jacket, and _only_ in his jacket. She reads it as derision, and mutters, “or not,” storming off into the darkness, towards the car she knows as his.

Three separate arguments spark in just as many minutes, but before he can blink, they are in his car, Sansa’s long legs tucked beneath her, bared by the daring slit in her gown, her shoes underneath the seat, and she's staring out onto the snow-covered roads.

“Where to?” he asks, a seemingly innocent question.

"Wherever." An insouciant shrug.

"You make me leave the party - "

"Oh, like you were _enjoying_ yourself -"

"And you don't even know where you want to go?"

Sansa does not deign to answer as she fiddles with the radio, putting on some ridiculous pop music he knows she loves. Jon scowls at the steering wheel, making a split-second decision he is sure to regret, and he takes her home.

“Here?” she asks as they pull onto his street, to a place she’s never been because he doesn’t let her into his life, into his time, but that she knows, because of course she does.

“It’s better than wherever,” he says, triumphant as he slams the car door and waits for her to follow along, as she saunters along under the streetlights, where fluorescence had never looked so good as on her pale skin and auburn hair.

Ghost greets them with energetic barks that only dim once Jon grabs the leash, slips out the door, not even bothering to say that he’ll be back. She has Lady, she knows the obligations of owning a dog.

Jon returns to find her – and that is the first surprise, that she hasn’t already retreated to the recesses of his spare bedroom. But what’s more is this: she is perched on the edge of his couch, flicking through movies on his television, mussed auburn curls and dark lashes a sharp contrast to – Jon inhales sharply – his hockey jersey draped on her slim shoulders.

Her legs are bare.

“What?” she says, having caught the intensity of his gaze with a sideways glance of her own. Her lips are pink, the painted red from before scrubbed away.

But Jon just shakes his head, the refrain of his head a single word: _fuck_.


	2. abysmal oceans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On another night, Sansa might wonder what changed, might make tentative overtures of friendship, might talk about Lady or his latest hockey match.
> 
> Not tonight, not now.
> 
> \---
> 
> jonsa new year drabbles, day 6: **lies**  
>  _title from bad intentions, by niykee heaton_

Sansa Stark is in a self-destructive mood which she refuses to contemplate, refuses to blame herself for, not after the night that she's been through. Maybe this is why she can't convince herself it's a bad idea to strip out of her gown the second Jon slams the door to his apartment, shimmying out of the gold and leaving it in a heap on his floor, unbuckling her shoes and wandering to his room, clad only in her lingerie as she stands in his closet, rifling through his clothes, looking for something, for anything. 

A smirk lifts her lips as she pulls out his hockey jersey from last season, with SNOW emblazoned across the back.

She slips it on.

There are sweatpants there, she can see them, and she refuses them, wandering barefoot back through the apartment with a calculating eye. In the hallway, she studies pictures of him and Robb, mementos from hockey matches, books stacked on every surface, and dog toys stashed in a large basket. This leads, easily, to thinking about why she'd asked Jeyne to keep Lady this weekend and -

Ending the evening in Jon Snow's apartment had not been what she'd planned, she admits to herself with a surly pout, as she recalls picking out the lingerie for a much different reason, for a much different man. It was supposed to be a _celebration_ , there was supposed to be a _ring_ on her finger, she was supposed to be listening to a resounding toast: to Harry and Sansa!

Supposed to be, should have been, _whatever_ \- it was all meaningless now, now that she'd glimpsed him in one of the guest rooms, pants around his knees and pounding into some girl that she didn't recognize, that she didn't _want_ to recognize. He hadn't seen her, hadn't even heard the door crack open, so lost was he in the throes of passion.

Sansa had swallowed the last of her champagne, and gotten the _fuck_ out of there as fast as she could, pausing only to text Harry that she'd seen him and it was over, pausing only to try to kidnap Robb and grab his car keys - knowing that he was so drunk he wouldn't remember seeing her - and ending up with Jon instead. Brooding, handsome, contemptuous Jon Snow.

The off-limits friend of her brother, the argumentative, brooding man that was never, ever, alone with her - until now. On another night, she might wonder what changed, might make tentative overtures of friendship, might talk about Lady or his latest hockey match.

Not tonight, not now.

Sansa perches on the edge of the couch, grabbing the remote to turn on the TV, to find anything to distract herself, to numb her brain from the refrains tormenting her - wasn't she pretty enough? funny enough? smart enough? didn't she have sex with him whenever? wasn't she -

Jon walks in the door and inhales and she does not let an ounce of triumph into her expression as she chances a look at him, as she sees his gaze fixed on her bare legs, on the way his jersey is falling off of her shoulder, as she sees the desire flash across his face as though he is helpless to it.

Good, she thinks, vindictively and cruel. _Good_.

"What?" she asks, as if she does not recognize the look in his eyes, the way he runs his hand through his hair and turns sharply away. 

Jon slips into his room, firmly shutting the door as he changes, and only then does she allow a smug smile to cross her lips, moving to the middle of the couch, remote still in hand. It's only a few minutes until he slouches onto the couch next to her, clad in joggers and a ratty t-shirt, a wary look on his face as he hands her a beer, clearly holding back a retort about her usual expensive champagne. 

Sansa doesn't mind, she likes beer. And she likes, even more, that he handed one to her. She curls up her legs beneath her, aware that the jersey sits far too high on her thighs to make the posture appropriate, aware that Jon's eyes drag along the exposed flesh and dart away. 

He clears his throat, and says in a low voice, "We could watch the ball drop." 

Gods, it isn't even midnight yet? How had it taken so little time for the carefully orchestrated pieces of her life to fall apart? They'd arrived at the party at a little after 9 and she'd seen _them_ a little after 10:30 and - was it planned? how could she not have suspected that - 

"Sure," she shrugs, chancing a glance sideways as he takes another swig of his beer.

The ball begins its descent.

Sansa wants to remember what it is like at the Stark house this time of night, sparklers and champagne toasts on swaying feet and enthusiastic kisses pressed on eager cheeks and such joy and drunken happiness that it almost feels genuine - but the only thing she can remember, with startling clarity, is Margaery's face over Harry's shoulder.

Robb's fiancée, her almost-fiancé. There's some joke there, a limerick or a one-liner, but for the life of her, she cannot twist it into anything but pain.

Is it any wonder she is feeling self-destructive? She wants to burn down her memory, to burn every piece of her that wanted him, that would have been fooled by him. She wants to know how long he's been lying to her, how long Margaery has been looking her in the eyes as if - but all that matters, tonight, is that she is somewhere else.

Somewhere she can be furious and reckless and dangerous and - she doesn't _want_ to destroy Jon, but - he's here and he _brought_ her here and -

if she burns, he will burn with her.

(The look in his eyes is a match).

She leans in.


	3. i've got some damn bad intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows better - he _does_ \- but to see his name emblazoned across her back, her hair loose and mussed around her shoulders, it sends a clear message to his long-hidden desires, to the base of his brain: she is _his_. Some part of him, inversely logical, states the obvious. When she was with Harry, she wore his jersey. She wasn't with Harry anymore, as he had coolly informed him in the car. And now, she wears his jersey. Ipso facto...
> 
> He shakes his head. 
> 
> \---
> 
> jonsa new year drabbles, day 7: **auld acquaintance**  
>  _title from bad intentions, by niykee heaton_

Jon had known, theoretically, that Sansa Stark had gorgeous legs, but the reality disarms him completely. A constellation of freckles dances across her upper thigh, there are dimples just above the freckles, and if he looks closely - which he valiantly tries _not_ to do - he can just see a thin line of lace at the curve of her hip, where the jersey has been hiked up due to her posture.

She doesn't even seem to notice.

She doesn't seem to _care_ what it would be like for him - a man who is purposefully private, who is intensely territorial about his space and his time and his things - to see her like this: on his couch, wearing his jersey (and what appears to be very little underneath).

He knows better - he _does_ \- but to see his name emblazoned across her back, her hair loose and mussed around her shoulders, it sends a clear message to his long-hidden desires, to the base of his brain: she is _his. S_ ome part of him, inversely logical, states the obvious. When she was with Harry, she wore his jersey. She wasn't with Harry anymore, as he had coolly informed him in the car. And now, she wears his jersey. Ipso facto...

He shakes his head, as he settles onto the couch next to her. She has made it extraordinarily fucking clear over the years that they aren't friends, that their interests and circles do not overlap, that she has no interest in anything more than the icy facade that she offers him, each time she sees him, bright eyes chilled enough to burn him straight through.

But somehow, she is here, somehow, she is on his couch (wearing _his_ jersey, his mind whispers, as if he could forget).

In total silence, they watch the crowds of cheering people, the glittering silver ball, the over-animated announcers. It is nearly midnight and Jon remembers, unwillingly, as if it has been dragged from his subconscious, the urge he'd had earlier, to find someone to kiss, to forget - and it's not just that she's here, that there is a woman in his apartment that he is theoretically, horribly, completely attracted to - it's _Sansa_.

He chances a glance in her direction, only to find that she is already looking at him, jaw tilted in a way that suggests consideration, the darkness in her eyes a clue to a mystery he can't quite puzzle out, because surely, she doesn't -

The ball drops, the clock strikes midnight, and the cheers emanate from the television into the quiet apartment.

The look in her eyes is coquettish, manipulative, cruel - and he suddenly realizes exactly what she's doing, knows that she's trying to escape her memories, her expectations, her urge to be perfect and pretty and good, knows that she wants to use him to forget. 

She leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, as if she had gotten off-course somehow from her original destination, but there was no mistaking her pace for anything other than intention.

"Happy New Year, Jon," she murmurs. 

"What are you doing?" The words slip from his mouth, caustic and accusatory and gods, not at all what he'd wanted to say, but they're out and she is staring at him. Eyes wide and wounded and filling with indignation so fast he wonders if he's imagined the whole thing.

"If I have to explain it to you - " she rolls her eyes and rises from the couch, clearly intent on storming away, but the apartment is small and she's here with _him_ and he grabs her wrist without thinking about it.

"You don't." His voice is low, rough with wanting, and his dark eyes are fixed on Sansa as she stills, rotates back to face him, as she keeps her wrist carefully in the confines of his grasp.

He's known her for almost two decades, he has basically grown up alongside her, and never has he so clearly understood the look on her face. The hesitancy she won't speak, the question behind the quirk of her eyebrow - the fear of rejection behind the brash mettle.

_Do you want this?_

He tightens his grip on her wrist and yanks her closer, in-between his legs, as his other hand comes up to grip the back of her thigh, to keep her delicately in place. Jon tilts his head to meet her eyes, intent clear and meaning obvious: _I do_.

Sansa carefully crawls onto his lap, settles her knees on either side of his hips, lifts her hands to his shoulders - all without a word, without a sound, keeping her gaze fixed on his, blue eyes dark with desperate wanting. _I do, too_.

Jon knows she is heart-broken, knows this is _not_ a good idea - but he can't help himself. If this is all he ever gets - scraps of her, whatever she condescends to give him - it will have to be enough. He has been wrecked for her for far too long to push her away now, in this moment of vulnerability sheathed as invincibility.

The kiss is meant to be slow, intentional, careful.

Instead, it is consuming, electric, _bruising_ \- his hands in her hair, her nails raking down his stomach, slipping under his shirt, her hips pressed into his with building urgency, soft gasps and moans falling from her lips as he sucks on her throat, as he marks her as his, as his hands weigh her breasts and slip to the heat between her legs with a steady devotion.

(She is wearing his _jersey_ ).

-

The fire has sputtered out and she is left with a hollow feeling beneath her ribs, the impression of his sheets on her cheek, the knowledge of the hurt she will cause him, if she stays.

Sansa slips from his bed before dawn, regret heavy as the arm slung across her waist, pervasive as the marks on his neck, on her own.

-

When he wakes the next morning, it is quiet.

She is gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ducks* 
> 
> I'm so sorry - I was trying to challenge myself to write in just 3 short drabbles and create a cohesive, short story (and I knew Sansa was an unreliable narrator and neither of them are in a place to fall into some perfect moment) but as much as I tried to go fluffy and sweet, they wouldn't let me. 
> 
> so, here we are. 
> 
> I _may_ write a continuation of this in the next few weeks - or maybe even an expansion of this universe (because I know, Robb!!) 
> 
> thank you so much for following along & all of your lovely comments along the way - they mean SO much to me.


End file.
